Mother to Geese

Look, I can't help it.

If there's a creature out there that needs help, if it can get to my door, it will get all the assistance I can give it.

It's been that way for as long as I can remember. I had a kitten swim the river to get to me after it was dumped in a swamp upstream on the far bank. I fished a bat out of that same river when we were picnicking below it, when a nightmare caused the poor thing to let go and splash into a cold awakening. A cicada being traced by a hungry sparrow clung to my shirt for protection. Cows follow me when I walk by their pasture. So do buffalo.

Need someone to nurse a hamster back to health, when it escaped its elementary school habitat and survived for weeks on kids' plant experiments and Play Doh? Were fish abandoned at the end of the school year because the teacher forgot to take them home? Is the dobie next door having an existential crisis, because it was a former guard dog and is now a house pet, and isn't sure if it's okay to both bark at and receive a treat from the people on the other side of the fence?

I've become a wildlife rehabber by necessity. Luckily I have a bio degree to back it up, because no one would believe half the stories I could tell of the critters I've assisted or seen up close and in my personal space. No, I don't keep them. The seriously hurt ones are passed on to the rehab centers with the proper facilities, and the just-stunned ones are given rest and quiet so they can be released where they were found... usually my back garden. Except for the one flying squirrel who tumbled into my house somehow. And the rather large bat who kept somehow getting into my kitchen, because it heard all the caterpillars chewing in their habitat and wanted in on the action. Both were shown the back door, which we kindly opened for them.

And yes, in fact, I most certainly DID see an ivory-billed woodpecker in the wild, and registered its location with the authorities. Because I very well know the difference between a pileated and an ivory-bill. Why am I so sure? The mated pair of pileateds that have taken up residence in the tree line behind our house give us plenty of opportunities to see them up close for comparison, and I've also seen pileateds in at least ten other states, so pattern variations are noted. Besides, the "ivory bill" thing is kind of a dead giveaway.

But I digress.

I adore pets, but for allergy reasons, my husband and I don't have any. We borrow our friends' pets often and repeatedly, cats especially. Hubby is a cat lover, but wasn't so thrilled about dogs till I taught him how to act around them. For years I swore he'd bottle-brush a tail he didn't own and climb a tree that didn't exist the minute a puppers borked at him. He's gotten so much better now, though he'll still gravitate to the cats for pettins and lovins. Our grandpuppers finally stole our hearts, and I've written stories about her before. Both our neighbors have dogs, and we get greeted often and repeatedly when they're out playing. The toys are stored right inside the back door for quick playtime.

But for me, it's always been the wild ones, the few hours or days they stay. Not pets per se, but just as important, that has turned our back yard into a haven by their own choice.

But, there was that one time....

College was interesting for me. Talk about the typical best of times, worst of times! Met my husband, learned about professional jealousy, played some phenomenal practical jokes, had my senior thesis sabotaged. Surprised some bio profs with what I knew. One of them had a bounty for any specimens of a particular land planarium that was found on campus - if you brought him a live one, he'd pay you for it. Apparently I broke the bank when I brought him an entire mating ball with fifteen of them. I think he missed dinner when he stayed overnight to watch the spectacle; I know his wife was rather annoyed with me for a long time afterward.

But that led to his putting me in charge of his lab's critters. The lab rats, a boa constrictor, and all the creatures that can get in trouble on a campus with wood plots and three ponds.

We had lots of critters. Squirrels that used me as a boundary marker. Snapping turtles that I had to rescue from idiot college kids who didn't realize that these things could bite off their toes. Ducklings that decided I was a better mama than the real one, and followed me across campus till I tucked them in with the other foundlings. (And put a thick sheet of foam between that tank and the boa constrictor tank, because B.C. loved freaking them out when they could see him through the glass! He got very sulky when I spoiled all his fun. Trust me, snakes are champion sulkers. Ask me about taking him for a slither sometime.)

But the geese. We had a large flock of Canadian geese on the campus, and they didn't fly south for the winter anymore because the pickins were too good. They would scarf up all the bread that students would sneak out to them, and no amount of scolding or pleading would stop them. Even when maintenance pinholed eggs, it wasn't enough to keep the population down, and the poop was everywhere. Running late to class was interesting to watch from a distance, with people dancing like the tarantella to avoid getting their shoes besmirched while rushing through the mine field.

And these geese were too smart for their own good. Pinholing the eggs was designed to keep them from realizing they'd never hatch, and not immediately starting a second brood. They knew substitute eggs a mile away, and would kick them out of the nest to start another batch.

Then someone came onto campus from another college, and spun around on the track field with their fancy hotrod car, and killed one of the geese in the process.

Doc knew where all the nests were, and it didn't take him long to figure out which batch was missing its momma. The mate was grieving too much to take good care of the eggs, so Doc took the whole clutch to the incubator in the labs. It was right in back, amongst all the tanks, and I was there every night taking care of the other critters. And I come from farm stock, where we got batches of chickens and geese and maybe ducks every year, I knew how to take care of chicks. So when passing by and hearing peeping, of course I'm going to hum-honk right back, making the soothing noises a mama makes when caring for a brood. And when you're in the labs late, cleaning tanks, what else are you going to do but make soothing noises at the peepers in their eggs?

Cue the drama the day they hatched....

Doc was sadistic, and our classes were at the ungodly hour of 8am. Why? Because he couldn't make them 6am, the [expletive deleted]. So I'm hauling my dragging tush down the hall, sans caffeine, when I hear the SCREAMING of baby chicks in mortal danger.

I teleported into the room - at least, that's what I was told. The goslings had hatched, and Doc had moved them to one of the empty tanks. And tried to bond with them, and they were having NONE of it! They were shrieking, they were scared out of their minds, and they wanted Mama RIGHT BLEEPING NOW!

Apparently I threw the stack of books I'd been carrying at my desk as I rushed by. I don't remember, but Dave my seat mate almost had body parts taken off laterally by the pile as it avalanched towards his abdomen. I ended up halfway into the tank, arms spread wide, hum-honking for all I was worth, soothing little fuzzies by barely touching their downy feathered heads.

They settled almost immediately. Food and water had been set up, so I made my hand into the head-shape, and guided them over to it. They happily fed for the first time, got some water, my head-hand guided them to the water pool, and they paddled happily.

I finally pulled out of the tank, to see my prof burning holes into my soul. "YOU! They imprinted on YOU! No wonder they thought I was a stranger!"

"Um, oops?"

So, I became Mama to the clutch. And Doc learned that imprinting could happen while they were still in the egg.

Taught them to feed, took them on walks, sat while they paddled in their water pool, taught them to eat grass as they grew. Taught them to look on Doc as a kind of weird Uncle type; they never accepted him as a Dad figure.

And one day, they were gone. I didn't get to say goodbye.

The decision had been made that sedentary geese are bad for public image, so they were going to be moved elsewhere. Quietly. I'm assuming some idiot up the chain thought someone would make a stink, so I wasn't informed.

Neither was Doc. He was rather pissed off, and let the Powers That Be know what kind of addlepated bleeptards they truly were.

Months pass. Doc would take us on weekend trips - hiking up to Hawk Mountain, driving down to Cape May for bird watching, to the midwest for bio conferences. When you're based on the edges of Philadelphia, there are plenty of opportunites for field experiences.

One was to Erie, to the other bio prof's house, to see some American chestnut trees that missed the blight.

Cool! Though I wasn't thrilled with the movie they picked to watch that night, Monty Python's Holy Grail. I grew up, rest assured, and my sense of humor expanded accordingly. But at that time, I'd seen the movie twice before, and I walked out later each time when I got annoyed or disgusted with the plot. This one was no different, I walked out a third time and went to sleep early.

So I was the first to wake in the morning - a very unusual occurrence for me - and slipped downstairs to visit the lake behind the property.

It was a crisp autumn day, timed to collect chestnuts. Mist was rising from the pond, the trees were beginning to turn, a glorious morning. I sat on a bench, watching the frost sublimate, watching the gaggle of geese on the far side in the reeds.

I grew up on a river. Dad, a former hunter, taught me everything he knew about creature behavior. They can communicate, believe me! And I watched as some of the geese gave me direct side-eye, head bob, head cocked slightly, head bob, side stare.

That's Canadian Goose for "Do I know you, from somewhere? You look familiar..."

I'm no fool, I can put two and two together.

Though my accent is strange, I can speak a few creature languages. So I put my palms to my vocal cords, pulled back a bit, and called "Vee-VEE? Vee-VEE? VEE VEE VEE VEE VEE!" Which is a momma's call to gather her goslings.

Heads shot up out of the flock, wild honking erupted, and a dozen adults ran-flew across that lake to get to me in record time. They left mates and babies in the confusion, calling excitedly to each other and their families to follow, come meet the flightless members of the family tree!

All of them. Each and every one of my babies, came over to say hi and show off their progeny.

We honked, we grunted contentedly. Their mates and now-grown goslings came at a sedate swim. And stayed out of reach, though my babies were close enough for me to gently brush the tops of their heads like I used to. Especially as adults who live on water, I didn't want to mess up their feather arrangement and waterproof oiling they need to survive. But I could admire their families, and did so, while mates and goslings gave off the avian equivalent of utter bafflement that Grandma was a....human???

My boyfriend had followed me, and was standing behind me in utter amazement. And, from the balcony above, I heard the most evil chuckling.

Doc. That sadistic bleep, he knew! He'd known! And he wanted to know just how deep imprinting truly went, both ways. My babies and I were accidentally part of a double blind experiment, and he'd somehow won a rather large bet with the other prof. I may have cursed him out, just a little bit. He just chuckled more and deeper.

But I got to say goodbye, truly and properly, and see the next generation.

That boyfriend is now my husband, and he's the one who helps me when we release the butterflies this time of year. As of this morning, the first of the three landed on his sweater like a quiet little "thank you" before taking to the air, and brushed his cheek as he left. Many have circled us one or twice before climbing high to catch the air current taking them southwest. Another has eclosed since then, and has been drying its wings.

Today we saw a Common Checkerspot Skipper, which despite its name, I've never seen before.

We look forward to what creatures we'll see in the future, who stay in our hearts forever, but leave for their homes in the wild.